


Isolate

by orphan_account



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Isolation, One Shot, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:49:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28783713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Wilbur, are you okay?""Is it okay to say that I'm not?""Yes, Wil, of course it is.""Then I'm not. I'm really not."
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	Isolate

He stared at his phone as it vibrated on his nightstand, with the unread messages of his friends. He should answer them, he knows he should, instead of the radio silence he’s given them the past 3 weeks. But each time he reaches out for the cellular device, the pit in his stomach churns faster, anxiety coursing through his veins, nausea rising. 

They won’t care. They don’t care. They don’t like you. They’ve never liked you. They’re glad you’ve disappeared.

His hand is left hovering an inch above his phone, and all he can do is stare at the trembling limb, until his view goes blurry, shifting to focus on the desired item just beneath it instead. If only he grabs it, then he could text a friend, talk to them, and they would understand, try to help him out of this hole he’s dug for himself.

So he tries. Tries to unfreeze his muscles, tries to pick it up, but his attempts are futile. His arm stays seized and shaking, unable to touch the phone, because the bad outweighs the good, it always does. The idea of reaching out, no matter how idealistic it seems, is always quashed by the overwhelming onslaught of self deprecating thoughts he’s been facing.

Because do they even care? Do they even like you?

The answer is no.

You’re nothing. You’re pathetic. You’re worthless.

And so he retracts his arm, back to the cocoon of blankets he’s coined ‘safety’. The comfort of his bed he hasn’t left for days, and has no plans to. There, nothing can touch him. No judgement, no prying eyes, no one to lull him into a false sense of security by pretending they like him. That’s what all his friends are doing, right? 

No one could like him.

Hell, he doesn’t even like himself.

He really is just worthless, isn’t he?

Usually this is when the tears start, but this time they don’t have the chance to spill. This time he has something to distract him.

Because the phone has started ringing now.

Instead of the irrational fear that’d been filling him, all he can feel is the irritation. He’d been listening to it vibrate for hours on end, not being able to do anything about it, and the noise was starting to get to him, the constant buzz against wood grinding into his skull. He could throw it across the room, and at this point, probably smile at the sound of shattering glass as it bounces off the wall.

So he picks it up with ease, a miracle mind you. The anxiety isn’t there, all he can think of is the satisfaction of shutting the thing up. At least, until he turns it over to look at the screen.

Dream is calling.

Oh.

Suddenly he’s forgotten that the whole reason he picked up the phone in the first place was to break it out of pure anger.

Suddenly the feeling of irrational terror is back, gnawing at his insides, twisting them into knots so tight they hurt.

But he doesn’t have to answer. He doesn’t want to talk to Dream, and Dream surely doesn’t want to talk to him, no one does, so he can just decline the call, right?

Hit decline.

Press decline.

Decline.

Decline.

Decline.

“Hello?’

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

Shaking hands must have hit the green rather than the red, or maybe it was just his subconscious mind yelling out for help, but either way he was in this predicament now, and the panic was really starting to set in.

“Wilbur?”

What does he do? What does he say? How on Earth does he explain that the reason he disappeared from the internet entirely was because he couldn’t pick up his phone? He knows he should at least answer, so he opens his mouth to do so, but the tightening of his throat prevents any noise from coming out, and the urge to throw up right then and there is so overpowering he has to shut it again.

“Wilbur? Are you there?”

He has to answer, because he accepted this call. Accidentally, yes, but he’s here now, and he has to deal with the consequences. That entails talking.

So he takes a deep breath, forces himself to calm, even if it’s just a miniscule amount, then tries again.

“I’m here.”

His voice is horribly raspy, courtesy of not using it for almost a month straight, and he sounds oddly hollow, although for that he’s sort of glad, as it’s better than giving away the fact he’s so nervous he almost vomited the moment he accepted the call.

“What happened? We’ve been trying to reach you for so long, we’ve been so worried!”

Dream’s voice oozing with concern just washes him with guilt. Guilt for making him this worried. Guilt at the fact he doesn’t deserve his concern. Guilt that all he does is hurt people. Tears are pricking at his eyes, and once again, his brain is so overridden with hate he can’t string together a coherent answer.

And in that moment he was lost. He didn’t have an excuse, nor did he know how to answer honestly. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, why this even happened in the first place. He fell into the abyss of depression and anxiety without warning, and just kept falling, because he had no idea how he was supposed to get back up.

He’d spiraled before, but this time was worse. Worse because people were actually trying to reach out to him. Usually, he was left to his own devices, left to tear himself down, rip himself apart by the seams, and then figure out how to put himself back together. Alone. But this time it seemed people cared. And he didn’t know why they cared. He doesn’t deserve the concern, doesn’t deserve their relentless attempts to help him. That just made the guilt worsen. 

“Wilbur, are you okay?”

A moment of silence fell as he contemplated his answer, then another, and another. He was so sick of pretending he was okay, because he really wasn’t, hadn’t been in a long while. But anytime he was sad or anxious, he ignored it, threw on a mask, and bottled the emotion so deep down it wouldn’t faze him any longer.

Until it all accumulated to a time like this, unable to leave his bed, and unable to talk to friends, alone.

And god, he didn’t want to be alone anymore.

He didn’t want to be tied to his bed by the chains of fear, his saviour so close on the bedside table, yet so far, metal balls of doubt and insecurity weighing down his shackled limbs each time he reaches for it.

He’d been in the prison of his room for so long, hadn’t seen the light of day in weeks, bland walls feeling more and more like the concrete ones of a cell. Each degrading thought that passed through his mind was just another guard, keeping him captive. Escape had seemed a ridiculous thought. There was no way out.

Except he had one now, had an escape, had the opportunity of salvation from his own mind, right there in his hands. The concrete prison that was his own room, dark, cold and empty, had had him confined for so long. But there was Dream’s smooth voice, raining down like the light in the void of despair he’d been wallowing in. He had the chance to save himself, and all he had to do was take it.

“Wil?”

“Is it okay to say that I’m not?”

His words were so quiet he was surprised the mic even picked them up, his anxiety-ridden mind silently hoping they weren’t heard.

But they were.

“Yes, Wil, of course it is.”

Then the tears came, sliding down his face in silence, hot and wet against his cheeks. His body ached, stomach boiling with fear, eyes stinging as they streamed liquid. The lump in his throat grew, and he had to fight to swallow the sob threatening to rise with his next sentence.

“Then I’m not. I’m really not.”

\----

Word count: 1360


End file.
